


Apprentissage

by imperfectandchaotic



Series: Midnight Mettle [5]
Category: Glee
Genre: Gen, M/M, TWLOHA, direct sequel to Paper Thin, vague references to depression, wardrobe feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-05
Updated: 2011-01-05
Packaged: 2017-12-18 09:46:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectandchaotic/pseuds/imperfectandchaotic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Apprentissage: french Noun: learning.</p>
<p>In which lessons are learned. Dalton boys learn self-control, Karofsky discovers regret, and Kurt finally understands what that infamous seven-letter word really means.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apprentissage

If there's one thing Kurt Hummel will never pass up, it's an opportunity to shop with his best friend. If people want to come along, he's not going to complain so long as Mercedes is there with him. Although now Kurt's realizing he should have objected to Wes, David, Blaine,  _and_  Quinn. Wes, David, and the reinstated Cheerios captain have been arguing over the merit of cheerleading as a true sport for the last twenty minutes, while Blaine snickers at Kurt's side with his pink sunglasses perched adorably on his head.

"Forgive them," he says softly in Kurt's ear, and the younger boy has to suppress a shiver. "It's been a while since they've been in contact with a girl as strong-willed as Quinn. They're too used to their girlfriends who spoil them too much."

"They won't last against her," Kurt tells him decisively. "The girl's a rock when she wants to be. Especially about cheerleading."

"I'm pretty sure I could bench press more than the both of you put together," comes Quinn's voice from behind them. "Dalton doesn't even have a gym, let alone a physical education program."

"We do too!" objects David. "It's just not mandatory."

"And are you two in it?"

A pause, as Blaine, Kurt, and Mercedes turn back to find Wes and David grumbling at their shoes while Quinn smirks on in triumph. She laughs lightly, her ponytail swinging as she walks ahead, linking arms with the other girl in attendance and turning into the Gap. Blaine's chuckle is warm as he puts a hand on Kurt's elbow and the boys move to follow. Wes and David trail behind them, still muttering about crazy McKinley girls.

The Dalton boys are accompanying Kurt, Mercedes, and Quinn on a shopping trip in Lima, claiming that there are no good malls in Westerville.

"Don't you boys wear uniforms?" Mercedes had asked with a raised eyebrow. "Kurt I can understand. My boy's a diva no matter what he has to wear five days of the week. No offence, but you guys don't look too keen on what you look like on the weekends."

"Which is why we're in desperate need of his expertise."

"Smooth," Quinn concedes with a nod, while Kurt blushes hotly.

"Okay," he says quickly, smoothing out an invisible crease on his sweater. "Shirts, button up. Go."

Two out of three mock salute and disappear among the racks. Blaine takes things at a more leisurely pace. He runs his fingers over a thick sweater on display, and Kurt's heart warms inside his chest. The boy's attention is diverted however, as Mercedes desecrates his perfect hair with a monstrosity that somehow passes as a hat. And so begins an all-out war that leaves the two best friends breathless and giggling. From the other side of the accessories rack, Quinn throws them a patented eye roll, but at least now the affection is noticeable.

"Hey Kurt."

Blaine has appeared, holding a pair of deliciously dark, dangerously skinny jeans.  _I'm a get your heart racing..._ Kurt has to give his head the tiniest shake to clear his thoughts.

"Please try these on." The boy's grin is too eager, his eyes too bright. Kurt is blindsided. His face heats, scalding and immediate. Mercedes has to elbow him somewhat sharply to jar him away from his suddenly parched throat.

"I—what?"

"Try these on?" Blaine asks again, sounding hopeful this time. "They'd look so good on you."

"I-I shouldn't," Kurt sputters finally, forcing out coherent words. "I have so many jeans."

"Kurt, you have three pairs," Mercedes interjects with laughter and amusement colouring her expression.

"Exactly."

"C'mon Kurt," Blaine wheedles, tilting his head in that just-so kind of way that makes the younger Warbler's heart beat a little faster. "I even grabbed a pair for myself. Just for fun. Please?"

Stupid Blaine and his innate ability to thwart the sharp Hummel tongue. With an audible exhale, Kurt silently accepts the jeans, as well as the crisp white button down Mercedes quickly grabs in his size and the leather cuff that Quinn hurtles over the rack between them. He glances down at the accessory—not exactly something the Gap sold—and up at the blonde, raising a perfect eyebrow.

"Trust me," she says insistently. "It's for Sam. It'll work."

Kurt bites his tongue and says nothing. Blaine is all smiles as he claps the other boy on the back and leads the way into the dressing room. After wriggling his way into the jeans and appreciating their ability to extend his legs by a few miles, Kurt carefully rolls the sleeves of the dress shirt to his elbows and slides the cuff onto his left wrist. He has to hand it to Quinn. Not bad at all. Kurt's phone vibrates in his pocket.

**La Senza is having a sale. We'll be back.**

He steps out in his socks as he replies in understanding, to find Blaine at the end of the small hallway contemplating his reflection at the full-length mirror. The elder boy has paired his own jeans (man, those jeans) with a white v neck t shirt, and Kurt can just make out the glint of metal around Blaine's neck. Something in his chest flutters. Whether there be a dog-tag or rose pendant at the end of the chain he doesn't know, for it disappears behind the shirt's neckline and Kurt is left feeling strangely disappointed.

"Wow."

The disappointment vanishes in place of... _this;_ this thing that makes his heart thunder and hurt, his stomach drop into infinity and his skin burn like fire. Blaine's eyes are dark, bright, brilliant and appraising in the mirror. For what may be the first time in his life, Kurt has no idea what to do with himself. There are the normal desires to fix his hair and the hemline of his shirt, and then there are the irrationals which include crawling into a hole, or seizing that metal chain, using it to drag Blaine forward and—

Kurt goes with options a) and b).

"I, um...thanks. You too."

The faintest flush of Blaine's cheeks may be a trick of this cheap, fluorescent light. Kurt hopes it isn't.

"Really?" asks the darker brunette, turning back to fully face his reflection. "It's been a long time since I've worn something like this. Before Dalton, at least."

Blaine's eyes find Kurt's in the mirror, and the haunted expression the younger boy sees there causes his breath to catch painfully. He recovers quickly however, squeezing his trembling hand into a tight fist behind Blaine's back before lifting it to rest on the other boy's shoulder.

"You look great. Trust me."

The flashback to Finn's attic is sharp and fast; painful in its naivety and eagerness that Kurt had been too foolish and determined to ignore. He tells his hand to move, but before it does, Blaine slips from underneath. Kurt's fingers jerk involuntarily at the warmth ripped away from him, and then jerk again in surprise at Blaine's sudden grip on his shoulders that steers him forwards.

"Your turn."

Clear blue eyes blink confusedly back at the Warbler soloist, whose lips curl into a gentle (gorgeous) half-smile. "I like this," he says, giving the collar of Kurt's shirt a small flick. "Simple, classic. Brings out your eyes."

_Breathe, Kurt. Come on._

He's going to burst into flames. It's inevitable.

"This too," Blaine continues, reaching towards Kurt's wrist. Their hands brush(  _beat_ _ **nothingnothing**_ _beat)_ as Kurt's arm is lifted with the leather cuff on display. "Suits you."

"Really?" He feels like a parrot. And then it turns into déjà-vu.

"You look great. Trust me."

_Kurt, if you do not breathe now you are going to pass out in the Gap. You will never get out of these jeans._

Is that such a bad thing?

Kurt's inner-argument is brought to a forceful close when he hears, "I will if you will."

"You'll what?"

"I'll buy them if you will. I'll this entire outfit if you buy yours." It's a challenge and a request and  _maybejustmaybe_ a plea. Kurt swallows, searching for something that could make sense of what is happening here (what is happening here?) and instead finding something in the mirror that evaporates all proper function completely. A black M on blood red.

It can't be. He blinks and it's gone. The boy gives his head another mental shake, forcing a smile to his lips. "Mercedes still has to approve. Part of the rules."

Blaine's breath of laughter ghosts against the nape of Kurt's neck, and this time he can't stop the tingling that crawls up his spine. "Alright then. I'm gonna change."

Another strained smile and the ex-McKinley student is alone. He counts to ten before wheeling around, leaving the dressing room before he can change his mind and sending Wes, Blaine, and David the same text message as he goes. He's standing in the middle of the store wearing clothes with tags still swinging when he comes face to face with Dave Karofsky for the first time since the last time in Sue Sylvester's no-longer office.

**I have to do this. Please don't try and stop me.**

Kurt knows they're all looking at it; looking up and finding him standing there with  _him_ and he hopes that they'll listen. He hopes that he's strong enough to walk the talk. The boy can see Wes and David out of the corner of his eye, holding several shirts each (yes, no, yes, yes, no,  _what the hell were you thinking Wesley?_ ) and staring with their mouths slightly agape. Blaine's gaze burns a hole in his back. Is it good or bad that Kurt is so acutely aware of him? There's still no verdict on that.

"Hummel," grunts Karofsky. He sneers all the way down his nose at the shorter boy, but Kurt can see the barest of reservations there. It should serve to bolster Kurt's confidence; this knowledge of Karofsky's inner turmoil—so easily unleashed upon cruel, judgemental masses—but instead of confidence or satisfaction Kurt just feels sort of hollow. His heart hammers inside his chest and blood roars inside his ears.

Courage right?

"Karofsky."

A familiar cruel glint appears in the hockey player's eyes. Kurt's hand curls into a fist of its own volition. "Shopping with your boyfriend?"

"He's not my boyfriend." He has to fight to keep his voice level. "What does it matter to you anyway?"

Karofsky's lips twist in an expression of anger. That's familiar too.

"If you try anything," Kurt warns, grappling with assurance he doesn't have, "They're all going to come at you. I won't be able to stop them."

_I won't try to._ The unspoken hangs in the air, trapped in this web of tension that is thick and suffocating. Karofsky's eyes dart towards the Dalton boys to his left, who have stopped looking astonished and begun glaring. They look more than a little murderous, which—after their last encounter with the McKinley student—Kurt can't blame them for. Although, he muses, they didn't give Karofsky much of a chance. This shouldn't bother him as much as it does. Why should he listen to anything this bully has to say?

"I need to talk to you."

Kurt folds his arms across his chest to hide his growing discomfort. "So talk."

"I uh..." The other boy's eyes shift from left to right in clear hesitation. The coil of fear in Kurt's stomach knots so tightly it becomes an inexplicable anger.

"What do you want, Karofsky? Is it not enough that you ran me out of McKinley? Must you humiliate me in public?"

Karofsky rocks his weight, and just as the Dalton student is about to walk in away in disgust he hears the words that might just change everything.

"I'm sorry."

_What the—_

"You're  _sorry?"_ Kurt nearly spits. The word tastes ugly and bitter inside his mouth, which only serves to drive this sudden confusion further and further into his chest. It's hard to breathe. Every manner of profanity Kurt's ever known runs circles in his head. He bites his tongue so hard that metallic taste fills his mouth, but he keeps all those horrible things down. He knows the danger here. Kurt remembers very clearly what happened last time he provoked Karofsky with awful words.

The taller boy looks somewhat shocked at Kurt's outburst. For his part, Kurt can feel his teeth tingling and his knees knocking together with nerves. It feels as though he's choking.

"Thank you," he says at last, reeling slightly still. It takes a moment for Kurt to realize he actually means it—a little. "But I don't forgive you."

Karofsky opens his mouth, but the other boy barrels on. He needs to say this.

"You made me  _hate_ myself." It's coming out in a half-whisper now—this confession that brims with acrid shame, winding around his heart and squeezing too tight. "You made me hate every part of who I am, because why else would you be picking on me? There had to be something wrong. Something bad. There is no going back from that."

There is a long pause as they both stand there, lost for words probably, because how does one come back from this?

"I need—"

"You need help," Kurt finishes for him, berating himself for interrupting but knowing. He's wondered if this connection between them makes him hate Karofsky more or less. He leans somewhat towards the former. "You need help; help that I can't give you. Talk to someone. Mrs. Pillsbury maybe. She can help you find what you need. I can't. I'm sorry."

A kind of recognition in Karofsky's eyes mingles with the ever-present underlying anger. Kurt is too tired to care. He's so tired of being afraid. "Please leave me alone."

The jock moves, just slightly, but it's enough to make Kurt flinch and for three bodies to press in on all sides.

"I think it's time for you to go Dave," says Blaine, gently yet firmly. Kurt wrestles with the desire to grab his hand and never let go. "Please."

Wes and David are still murderous. Kurt's knees knock even harder together. Dave Karofsky throws Kurt one last glance of clear discomfort and  _maybejustmaybe_ remorse before turning and leaving the store. Kurt sucks in air, feeling faintly ill. He wheels around and bolts back to the dressing rooms before anyone, especially the college-looking female cashier working the till, can see the film of tears burning in his eyes.

Once in the safety of the tiny room, Kurt gasps back sobs. He refuses to cry. The boy thinks back to his last not-really encounter with Dave. He remembers the wall against his back and Blaine, so close—closer than ever—and he remembers how much it hurt. How afraid he'd been. It makes Kurt feel ill and angry and sad all at once, until he slumps against the door, unable to keep himself standing.

He's not crying though. So far so good.

Kurt takes a few deep breaths to try and clear his head of the impending headache. He almost doesn't start at the light knocking on the door.  _Almost_ being the operative word, of course, as Kurt jumps anyway. He doesn't waste energy trying to guess who is on the other side. He knows it's Blaine; probably standing with his forehead touching the smooth wooden surface as he speaks ever so softly.

"You okay?"

"I've been better," Kurt replies, in no mood for faking composure. "I can't believe that just happened. Are you sure I'm not dreaming?"

"Positive." Affection threads through those three simple syllables, washing over the younger boy like a cooling summer breeze. The pair lapses into silence until Kurt has to break it, if only to spare himself more inner conflict.

"I have a question."

"I hope I have an answer," says Blaine's voice promptly. The boy seated tilts his head back, counting to three before asking, "What's on that chain around your neck?"

"You know  _To Write Love_ , right?"

Kurt nods before remembering he is alone in the room, and lets out an almost squeaking "Yes."

"Here, let me show you."

Instead of a request to open the door, Kurt is surprised to hear a clinking above his head, and looks up to find that elusive object dangling from the top of the dressing room door. It's a dog tag, reading  **TO WRITE LOVE ON HER ARMS** , followed by a small star. The print is white on black on one side of the tag, and opposite on the other. He knows the organization, dedicated to helping those who struggle with depression and self-harm, among other problems they may have.

It's often mistaken for a band, Kurt muses internally, remembering what he'd first thought when he'd seen the name on a small poster in some office somewhere. In spite of the misguided idea, the name was so intriguing that he'd googled it, and what he'd found had been more than he could have imagined. Kurt remembers trying to finish the official site's vision through blurred eyes, and the refreshing pain of what he'd been feeling emulated so poignantly in that handful of paragraphs.

In that moment Kurt had been thankful for his father, whose love and support had always trumped cold and potentially dangerous thoughts. It's here in the dressing room of the Gap that he realizes how lucky he is.

"It helped me through a lot." Blaine is quiet, so quiet Kurt almost has to strain to hear him. "I wear it everyday."

For the longest time Kurt has to stamp down the urge to burst into fresh tears. He stares up at his purple scarf that completes today's outfit; hung up on one of the hooks on top of his jeans.  _Spirit._ The colour of T _he Trevor Project_  and days dedicated to support of the LGTB community—Kurt smiles fondly at the memory of New Directions all sporting purple (save Finn, who claimed purple boxer shorts) and his heart hurts a little.

There is no colour on the pride rainbow for courage, but if he had to choose any colour Kurt would dedicate courage to the beautiful hazel hue of Blaine's eyes. Something shifts inside Kurt's chest; a once almost-pain turns into a warm resolve. Maybe it's hope.

_Courage, right?_

"Hey Blaine?"

"Yes Kurt?"

A breath. ( _beat)_ "What would you do if I kissed you?"

It's the longest pause of Kurt's life. That warmth turns into a roaring burn. "Would you kiss me back?"

"I'd..." The hesitation in Blaine's voice is new and terrifying. "I'd have to make sure it's what you really wanted."

Kurt swallows, resisting the urge to screw his eyes shut before asking, "And if it is?"

( _beatbeat_ _ **nothingnothing—**_

"Yes."

( _ **nothingnothingnothing—**_

The door flies open. For a moment it might have been bruising lips and wandering hands and tangled hair and deep throat noises, but this is Kurt and Blaine, and no matter their courage they are not simply want and lust and fireworks. They are steady, calm, constant. They are this hum of  _maybejustmaybe_ that folds around them like an embrace. They are soft and quiet like comfortable silences and just barely touches sitting side by side.

They are learning, growing, teaching—they are perfect harmonies that make Kurt's heart sing. So when the door opens and he moves within just a few inches of Blaine, Kurt's first real kiss,  _the one that counts_  isn't what he expects, nor is it the kiss he dreamed of. It is slow, careful, full of ghosting breath and butterfly eyelashes, gentle calloused fingers and ( _ **nothingnothingnothing**_ _)_

And then,

( _beat)_

It is not quite like anything he could have imagined.

For the longest time he thinks he's dreaming up that darling flush of red in Blaine's cheeks. But then Kurt reaches out with just barely trembling fingers to touch his face, and in feeling the warmth he knows it to be true.

He knows it to be real.

A breath. Blaine wraps his arms around Kurt, holding him so tight it's almost painful, but it's the most amazing pain Kurt's ever experienced. He presses his nose into Blaine's shoulder and breathes the tears away slowly, because he should be happy dammit, and even though they're happy tears he doesn't want to let them fall. He wants to be able to see.

"We should go," says Blaine in a whisper. His breath, warm and light, brushes against Kurt's neck and shivers rise up and down.

Instead of letting words of protest form, the younger boy pulls back and tries to remember how to speak. Blaine's eyes are bright and his gaze is soft as he gently pushes Kurt back into the dressing room and closes the door behind him. Kurt fumbles with the lock with shaking hands. He changes quickly, his heart kick-started and running ( _beatbeatbeatbeat)_ so fast he can feel it inside his throat.

When the door reopens Blaine is still there, still smiling, still gorgeous. Kurt is suddenly struck with nervousness, but the elder boy puts a hand on the small of his back and the nerves burst into delightful butterflies in his stomach. At the register, the girl at the counter just shakes her head, smiling and points to Wes and David, holding a bag each at the store's entrance with Quinn and Mercedes.

"They've got you covered." She smiles almost wistfully at the pair of them standing in front of her. "You guys have a great day."

When Kurt goes to hand back the leather cuff to Quinn, she shakes her head. "Keep it. I got another one for Sam." The girl looks triumphant. "Told you, didn't I?"

Wes and David wave off thanks. "Now whenever you wear these," says David with a knowing smile, "You can think of today."

Kurt's blushing before he even realizes. The Dalton boys exchange looks and their grins become wicked. The girls just raise their eyebrows in question, to which Kurt shakes his head.  _Later_ , he mouths, and their answering smiles stretch across their faces. Leaving the mall, they've paired off again. Kurt and Blaine trail behind, enjoying the silence the space brings them. Their hands brush, once, twice, and on the third Kurt grasps Blaine's hand and holds on. He squeezes lightly, feeling a rush of unknown follow.

( _beat)_

Blaine's thumb runs a small circle in Kurt's palm, and he squeezes back.

 

**Author's Note:**

> revisiting old fic like this is super weird for me. please tell me I'm not the only one?


End file.
